The Call of Chicomecóatl
by mothcatcher
Summary: Valentina is a Chicana, a pessimist, and a sleepwalker, and Isaac needs her if the children of the corn are to survive. AUish, OC, some OOC. PLEASE REVIEW!
1. Intro

Disclaimer: "Children of the Corn" and "A Clockwork Orange" belong to their respective owners... not me.

* * *

Just sitting here, reading my book, A Clockwork Orange, here in my corner, hiding from the rest of the school... it feels nice. I like my isolation. It gets lonely every now and then, but it's easier than putting forth the effort of relating to other people. People don't usually like me anyway. Apparently I'm creepy. I mean, I'm not complaining, but that's what other teenagers seem to think. I guess it's true. I like dark stuff, like serial killers and other such monsters. I'm also Mexican, which makes people uncomfortable even in these United States, land of the free, home of the *ahem* brave, in the 1970's. I guess I'm not one of the free or the brave, at least my classmates don't seem to think so. Whatever, they can kiss my ass. I wish they'd all disappear. Or better, that I would disappear. That way I wouldn't bother anyone anymore.

Jessica Daniels walks by with her boyfriend Eric and their friends whose names don't really matter (not even to Jessica).

"Oh, hi there, Valentina!" Jessica is one of those girls with the Farrah Fawcett hairdo. She's trying to seem friendly, but the toothy smile and the high voice have the opposite effect in my opinion. Especially since she's talking really slow and loud, like I'm some sort of retard. Even if I didn't speak much English, how would that help me understand her better, anyway? I raise one eyebrow and give her a halfhearted smile.

"Hi."

"What are you reading today?" She sits. Why? Why does she have to do this? Her friends are all sitting too. I crouch smaller and back up further against the wall. "A Clockwork Orange," she reads aloud as she leans over to see my book. "What's that about?"

I scratch my head. "A teenage kid called Alex who goes around every night with his friends beating people up and raping girls. But then he gets caught by the police and is subjected to all kinds of torture in prison."

Okay, so maybe that sounds a little, uh, horrible. I'm not very diplomatic. Whatever. The sooner this phony bitch leaves, the better.

Jessica Daniels blinks. Then she looks over at her friends and tries to suppress a laugh, failing miserably due to the fact that she wasn't trying very hard in the first place. "That sounds cool!"

One of her friends mutters something like "Especially if you're a mexican drug-addict," and is promptly elbowed in the ribs by Jessica Daniels. She tries to cover it up by coughing and then grinning. In my mind, I see her five years from now working as one of those moronic blondes on a cheap game show.

I smile humorlessly, nod and walk away. She doesn't protest.

I'm used to this bullshit. Some people are more straightforward in their racist remarks, but others, like Jessica, prefer to act friendly and leave the sting in the underlying message, as if I were too _foreign_ too read between the lines.

"Valentina, dinner's ready!" my mom calls.

Great...

I turn off the David Bowie music and drift to the dinner table. The rest of the family is already there. Dad's at the head of the table, with mom next to him and the twins, Anita and Bianca across from her, leaving me to sit next to Mom. The conversation is quite nondescript, as usual, and then we run out of things to say and there's that agonizing silence accompanied by loud chewing and clinking silverware. It sets my teeth on edge. Suddenly,

"Vale, I got a call from your Algebra teacher today."

Oh, fuck, not this.

"Hm," I say without looking up from my rice.

"You know what he told me?"

"Enlighten me."

"Don't give me that attitude. He told me you're failing, Valentina." He sounds all stern and angry. I don't want to look up lest I see that vein on his temple that pulses when he's tense. That thing gives me goosebumps. Every time I see it, I want to hit him on the head in an attempt to flatten it out.

I don't answer. No matter what I say I lose. Better save my breath in case I need to use it for a rant later on in this conversation...

He continues, "You know, this, plus the call I got from your Chemistry teacher two weeks ago, it makes me wonder if you're really recovering!"

Aha! There it is, the magic word, recovery. He always plays this card. I know what's coming. He'll bring up how much money and effort he and mom and the whole family is putting in for me, you know, for me to get better. From my, *ahem,* depression... and whatnot.

Sure enough:

"Valentina, did you hear me?"

Sigh. "Yessir, loud'n'clear, captain."

"There's that attitude again! I wish you'd respect us every now and then. We've put in so much for you. You've been this way for so long, and we're paying for therapy, we got you a cat because the therapist recommended it! Your attitude is taking its toll on the family. You could at least show some appreciation, even if you fail your classes, the least you could do is show some respect!" His eyes are all bugged out.

"Mi amor," my mom tries to step in, but he keeps going.

"No, she needs to hear this!" Ha! Ha ha ha. Like I haven't heard it fifty million times before.

"I'm not hungry." I take my plate to the sink and flee. The father protests, but what's he gonna do about it? One time he followed me into my bedroom and the results were disastrous. Then I told my therapist, who politely asked him to back the fuck off. I mean, I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.

My cat, Canti (short for Cantinflas) scampers after me and settles next to me on my bed when I lie down. Canti is my favorite creature in the world. He's a ragdoll cat, mostly light gray, but his snout, ears, paws and tail are darker. He's quite small for a cat, even though he's already a year old, and a scary little beast when he's angry. He never gets angry at me, though. I like to think he's taken responsibility for me. He follows me to school every day and waits in the yard for me to come home. He sleeps on my bed, too. I don't mind. It's like having a live, warm teddy bear.

As Canti gets comfortable on my stomach, I turn up David Bowie and shut my eyes. Time to let my mind wander.

I wish my oldest sister Sarina were here... She's the only person I know that truly listens to me. Even when she doesn't understand me, at least she tries. That's more than can be said for anyone else. She's off in college now. She calls all the time, but the phone is in the kitchen and I don't like talking to her with other people in the room. My therapist listens, but we're paying her. Sure, she gives advice and stuff, but she also ceases to care as soon as I walk out of the room...

Sarina is like the mediator of the family. Whenever there's a fight, she's there to sort it out peacefully. It's not like I don't appreciate what my family has done in attempt to make me "recover," but what am I supposed to do? Pretend it's working, just for their benefit? I've tried to tell them that the problem isn't the depression, it's me, that's just how I am, I'm a downer. They don't listen, though, they just send me to the therapist again. "Talk to Dr. Roberts, mija, she can help you figure this out. You'll feel much better if you talk to her." Over and over, like I might believe them if they repeat it enough times.

A knock on the door.

"Yeah, come in... if you must..."

It's Anita and Bianca, bless their hearts, they come bearing a message.

"Mom wants to know if you're all packed for the trip."

"When are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay, I'll get started."

They leave. It's hard for even me to tell which is which. Anita has a tiny beauty mark on her neck, but other than that they are identical. And inseparable. It's maddening, actually. I almost feel sorry for them. Neither one is complete without the other. What bothers me the most is that they reinforce the stereotype. Twins who are inseparable. It's just so _cheesy._

I'm not close to those two. Of course I love them, they're my sisters, they're a part of my life, but I really don't know them that well. Just that they're straight-A students and are better than me at everything. I'm Cain and they're both Abel. But I didn't kill them, of course. Not yet, anyway... heh heh... was that not funny?

Genesis was always my favorite part of the Bible. The only part that didn't bore me to death and the only part that didn't make me angry. I used to go to church with my family, until I did confirmation and decided that I wanted nothing to do with it. I attended the weekly classes, but when it was time to make a speech in front of the entire church, I refused. It was something of a scandal, unfortunately. I just told the pastor that if I went up there and proclaimed myself to Jesus, I'd be lying. And then I walked away and didn't look back. Those church people must hate me now, but I can't help being this way. I'm nihilistic, fatalistic, agnostic, cynical, and not ashamed of any of it. Or something like that. To be honest, I'm still figuring out what I am. All I know is what I'm not.

I start to pack, and I think of the relatives we're visiting in Colorado. I don't know much about the history of the family. Only that abuelo Alberto, my father's father, was a bracero, which means he was brought to the U.S. during the second world war to work because there weren't enough men to do all the labor, because all the american men had been drafted. I don't really know much about it, but I'd like to learn. Maybe I'll ask him when we get there.

I keep David Bowie playing softly as I try to sleep.

I dream. I always dream. And I love all my dreams, even the nightmares. Dreams are like little revelations. They tell me things I didn't even know could come from my brain. Lately, I've been having the same dream every night.

Corn. And a boy. He's just a little boy, nine or ten years old. He's pale, and his expression is like none I've ever seen on a child except in pictures of myself when I was little. He's an old soul, like me. And he is powerful. And this cornfield feels like home to me, it is my home. That's why I love this dream so much. And in the dream, I walk through the corn. I walk and walk, just wandering through the endless rows of tall corn, searching for something. For someone. But I won't find it. Him. Her. He/she/it is hiding. Scared. I'm trying to coax it out. I need it. We need it. Him, her, it, I don't know. The little boy and I wander on and on.

And I wake up to find my little Canti staring at me with big blue eyes. I'm not in my bed, just for a change. Every time I have this dream, I sleepwalk. I've been sleepwalking since I was twelve, but it's gotten worse lately.

Let's see... where am I? Library. Every time I end up farther from home. I suspect Freud is at work here.

No matter how far I go, Canti comes along. You could say he's my guide cat. And when I get lost, he takes me home. His sense of direction hasn't failed me yet. He starts walking and I follow him home.

* * *

**Author's note:** This is the first fanfic I've ever written, so please be gentle! It's an AU because a few things have changed, namely that Job and Sarah are both hispanic, Malachai is sixteen, and there are a few other changes that I don't want to ruin for you! Please note that this fic is NOT based solely on the 1984 movie. I used elements from the short story, the original 1984 film and the 2009 remake, and of course added my own take. I visualize the characters looking like they did in the 2009 remake, especially Isaac since he's supposed to be very young. I couldn't have written this without help from my brilliant sister, EssaGueraFulo, who gave me more help than I deserved. Thank you so much, I love you, I owe you my soul, my left kidney, and the blood of a black goat. I'd also like to mention that I wrote these first two chapters a few months ago mainly for the purpose of catharsis, since I was very, very depressed. I apologize for the shameless amounts of angst!

The title is a reference to Chicomecóatl, the Aztec goddess of maize, or corn. I myself am half Argentinian, not Mexican. I apologize for any inaccuracies, I don't want to offend! If you find something inaccurate that bothers you, let me know, I'll do my best to fix it.


	2. Summoned

I open my eyes to see the dark gray sky overhead.

I can still see in my mind's eye the dream I was having. I'd been in a cornfield with a bunch of kids. It was vaguely familiar. I hate recurring dreams.

I sit up suddenly and feel a wave of dizziness, and as I touch my forehead there's a surge of pain in my head. Panic. I'm not where I was last night. Life has a way of making everything happen at the worst time possible for me. I have a theory that the universe holds a grudge against me.

I'm by the side of a road. It looks just like the ones yesterday, nothing but the road and the cornfields. Perfect.

Canti's still asleep. The sun isn't even up yet. I get to my feet and notice I'm shivering. It must be earlier than six in the morning, the fog is so thick.

I pick up Canti, who wakes with a start and meows angrily at me. "Don't be such a baby," I tell him. I look around, trying to find a sign that might give me a clue as to where I am, but there's nothing. Just me and Canti, and the road, and the corn, and the sky, and the fog...

"Okay, Canti. Let's go back to the hotel." I set him down and he looks around. He strides out in front of me, changes his mind, and suddenly turns around and starts going in the other direction. And then he comes back to me and sits down on the grass, staring up as if to say "Up, now, please." I pick him up and sigh. He usually knows where to go, but I guess I can't expect him to know everything. We're far from home, after all. And this fog doesn't help. Both directions look exactly the same.

Better start walking then... Maybe a car will drive by and I can ask them where we are. Maybe they'll even give us a ride! Good thing I'm so paranoid that I wore a bra under my pijama shirt. Wait, what am I _thinking_? What if I got murdered or raped or kidnapped? No... _Noooo_ taking rides from strangers. We'll get somewhere eventually... Just keep going...

I hear a rustling coming from inside the corn. I stop dead in my tracks. I wonder whether it would be better to run or wait to find out what that noise means. It could have just been the wind... But that wasn't what it sounded like. No, it sounded like someone is shoving their way through the corn in a hell of a hurry. The noise goes on until the young boy stumbles out. He's no older than 12, and no doubt he's latino. He looked at me as he stepped out, like he expected me to be standing exactly where I am. And he's covered in blood. He's holding onto his neck with one bloody hand, and with the other he's reaching out to grab mine. I don't resist. I'm frozen. He can't speak, his fucking neck is slit. He falls down on his knees and lies down in the grass, blood spilling down. He's trying to tell me something, it's just barely a whisper, I shake my head, trying to understand it. Spanish. "Ayudala, por favor." He keeps repeating it over and over. My entire body's shaking uncontrollably. I try to get a hold of myself. "Quien?" I whisper, but it's too late, he's gone. I cover my mouth to muffle my cries. I let go of his hand suddenly, realizing he isn't there anymore. I shut my eyes, but the image of his face is tattooed in my mind's eye. His neck covered in red shiny, sticky, messy blood, his brown eyes, now empty, staring at me pleadingly, his black hair shaggy and disheveled. The cold sweat on his face, the beads of dew on his eyelashes, his tears migrating down to the grass. His dark skin, dark eyes, dark hair, his almond eyes and soft lips, so much like my own. My family's features, my heritage. I want that dead child's face to get out of my head, so I stare at the sky, at the corn, I shut my eyes tight and grab my head, anything, anything to make it go, but it's there forever. I stare at my hands. They're covered in blood from having held his hands. I try to get it off, spitting on them, wiping them on the grass, but it's so sticky, it won't leave me alone. Why can't I escape? Surely this isn't happening... surely it's a nightmare. But in the back of my mind I know that if it were indeed a nightmare, I wouldn't have known. It is not a dream. It's happening right now. I have blood on my hands. It's there, I can see it plainly enough. I can see the dead boy, eyes still wide open. And suddenly I get cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. My head reeling. I vomit by the side of the road, cough and gag until my throat burns. My ears, ringing with the sound of the wind in the corn. I cover my ears, make my body into a ball and close my eyes, but I can't get away. The wind is too strong, the blood too sticky against my ears and my hair, the image of the tiny corpse too vivid.

There's a dead child lying next to me. There is a _dead child _lying next to _me_. I need to get a hold on myself. Why would someone kill a little boy? It dawns on me-there's some sick bastards out there-could he have been a victim of some hate crime?

"Ayudala, por favor." Help her, please. Help who?

I stand up so fast my head spins, and I jump back when I see another boy, this one white, tall, and alive. He must be almost six feet tall, and he's got broad shoulders, red shoulder-length hair and a solid stance, and he's older, maybe fifteen or sixteen. His green eyes bore into mine. I feel myself cringe under his glare. I'm not easily intimidated. I tend to be the one who intimidates others, but this guy isn't normal. I can almost hear the drilling and pounding of the intensity of his eyes on me. He's not just watching. He's examining, searching, violating, just with his stare.

There's blood splattered all over his shirt and face and his hands and forearms are covered in it. In his right hand, a dirty, rusty, bloody machete.

He takes a few steps closer. His gaze has softened, but his face still looks hostile, like it's stuck that way. He speaks softly in an authoritative tone, "Who are you, outlander?" Authoritative, but curious.

I clear my throat, but my voice still sounds rough and it trembles. "I'm Valentina."

He stares more, his eyebrows furrowed, frowning. I can see the different expressions despite the mean disposition his face seems to be molded as. He looks like he's deciding what to do with me.

Eventually, after what must have been the longest minute of my life, he approaches me. I want to run, but where would I go? He might slit my throat just like he did to the little boy. I glance at the machete, but his grip on it has loosened. He notices what I was looking at and secures the knife to his belt.

Canti scampers over to me protectively and leaps onto my shoulder. The boy glances at him nonchalantly, then focuses on me again. He's looking at my bare feet, my black sweatpants, my plain white t-shirt which I decorated in art class with a picture of Sid and Nancy. He looks back into my very soul with his horrible eyes full of aggression and loathing, and something else I can't figure out.

He grabs me by the elbow. He's got that awful sticky blood on his hands. I gasp and take a step back, trying to escape, but his grip is the strongest I've ever felt. There's no way I'm getting out of this. When he sees me struggle, he doesn't let go, but that expression becomes more clear on his features. I can't decipher him. It's an emotion I don't know.

He tugs. "I _must_ take you to Gatlin." There's nothing I can do. We walk into the corn, and as we go past the dead boy, I feel a surge of nausea. He leads me through the cornfield, occasionally glancing back at me curiously, those strange traces of hostility never faltering.

I had been afraid he'd kill me or rape me or do something equally horrible. Now I realize that if that had been his intention, he'd have done it already. No, he's taking me somewhere. I want to ask where, but I can't speak.

I remember the dream. The corn. The little boy. Walking through the endless rows, just corn, and corn, and corn. And now the red-haired boy is leading me through the exact same rows of corn. How am I only realizing this now? My head is spinning, my stomach is turning, and my legs are getting weaker.

I stop and retch, cough, dry heave, until it finally stops and then I collapse, but the boy catches me just as blackness comes.


	3. Lost Little Shepherd Boy

WOW. Sorry for the... ahem... delay. This year has been CRAZYPANTS to say the least. I've probably had more therapy this year than most people have in their entire life! O_o yay brains. thank [insert deity's name here] for meds and the GED. ANYWHO, here's teh chapter 3. Tell me what you think. Pleeeez? :) And in case you're wondering, the whole Aztec deity thing will be coming into sharp focus after this chapter, probably, so sit tight!

Also: THANK YOU to all my readers. It's so encouraging to know that there's human beings out there who enjoy my little creation here. So REVIEW! Let me know if it's terrible! Tell me what to do to make it not terrible! Mmkay?

* * *

Malachai stared at the unconscious girl in his arms. She had the same features as the sinner. The olive-toned skin, jet-black hair, almond-shaped eyes… Could Isaac have been mistaken, or the drawings false prophecies? But it was too much of a coincidence, and besides, he wasn't about to disobey the Seer. He made his way through the corn carrying the outlander, surprised at how light she was. The little animal followed them all the way to Isaac's room at the back of the church.

Isaac was examining the Bible when Malachai entered the church carrying the girl.

"Isaac, I found her. It was just like the picture."

"What happened?" asked Isaac, nodding at the comatose outlander.

The redhead laid her on a pew and said, "I killed the unbeliever like you ordered, but then I heard something as he ran out of the corn. He spoke, said something before dying, but I couldn't understand any of it. Then I saw her, and it was exactly like the picture." He pointed at the drawing on the table. It was a child's art, crudely drawn but very clear. It showed a boy covered in red with a girl kneeling next to him and a small animal behind her. Behind them was the corn, and peeking through was a figure with red hair. "She was… _very_ frightened, and didn't notice me at first when I stepped out of the corn. When she saw me she became even more frightened, but I put down my knife and told her to come with me. She didn't move, so I took her by the arm and led her into the corn, and that's when she passed out."

Isaac stared hard at the outlander and pondered this. He supposed anyone would be afraid of his assistant when he Malachai was carrying a weapon and covered in blood… Many of the children were afraid of him. It seemed natural enough.

"You frightened her, Malachai."

"I… it wasn't my intention." It wasn't a lie. It also wasn't the truth. Malachai did everything in his power to frighten anyone and everyone into submission, with the exception of Isaac. It was so natural for him to intimidate others that sometimes he didn't even realize he was doing it.

Isaac stared at his helper for another few moments before saying, "Bring her to the back room for now. She needs to feel comfortable, otherwise we're wasting time."

Malachai picked her up again. In seeing the strange girl's pallid face, her long hair, her stillness, his mind flashed back to a memory of a girl he once knew. Quickly, he shook the thought away. The two situations were completely unrelated, and this outlander looked nothing like _her_.

He set her down on the bed and glared at her unmoving figure for a moment, suddenly annoyed.

"Malachai, go fetch one of the older girls and tell her to come here. I need someone to care for the outlander until she wakes up. And wash off that blood; it's unclean."

He strode off without a word and snarled at the first girl he saw to go see Isaac, then yelled at her again when she hesitated.

Malachai stood shirtless in the older boys' tent and watched as the water became flecked with the forming patterns that swirled around in the large bowl. The scarlet fluid was all over his arms, splattered on his neck and face and on his chest and torso where it had soaked through his clothing. A blissful numbness embraced him as he recalled grabbing the boy by the hair and, holding his head back, pressing the blade against his neck and bringing it across, feeling the warm blood flow over his arms and the child's pulse quickly coming to a close. Taking in every minute detail then finally whispering in the child's ear, "It is over," and with a satisfied smirk letting him go.

He exhaled deeply and came back to the present. He washed off the remaining evidence and looked through the mirror into the green eyes of the monster. A small whimper was heard and he turned his head to look at the tiny boy who was staring at him with tears forming in his eyes. As his whine grew louder, threatening to turn into a full-blown wail, a teenage girl ran into the tent and picked him up, blushed slightly at the sight of Malachai, then fled after muttering, "Excuse us," without making eye contact.

He rolled his eyes. Though they didn't fully understand or acknowledge it, all of Gatlin was aware of Malachai's thirst for blood. He didn't bother trying to hide it: he enjoyed the kill. And why shouldn't he, when it was obvious the Lord did, too?

He glanced once more into the green eyes of the beast inside him, then made his way to a place where no one would bother him.

* * *

Valentina awoke as a young blonde girl placed a wet cloth on her forehead.

"Good, you're awake! Eat, drink. You look starved." She motioned to a bedside table where there was a plate with a chunk of shapeless bread and a glass of water.

She sat up, letting the washcloth fall. The memories washed over her like a tidal wave, and all she could do was sit there, paralyzed. She looked at her hands, but they were clean. Next to her bed was a large bowl of ruddy water containing equally ruddy rags. She eyed the bread and water suspiciously.

"What happened to you? That blood wasn't yours, seeing as you're not wounded," murmured the girl, who then quickly squeaked, "Oh, n-never mind, I shouldn't be asking! If you'll excuse me, I'll call Isaac."

"Wait!" Valentina said, and the girl (who would later become known as Naomi) turned around.

"What is this place, where am I?"

"Gatlin," she the child said simply, and she left before the outsider could protest.

"Jesus," Valentina whispered hoarsely. "Why's this happening to me…"

"You were summoned here."

She jumped at the voice, and saw a young boy standing in the doorway. What stood out the most was the hat he was wearing. It was huge. It looked absurd, and yet she still couldn't help but take his presence seriously. He had brown hair and the deepest of brown eyes. Eyes that were like hers, that conveyed the a strange emotion. That cold interest submerged in hopelessness. She recognized him immediately as the boy from her dream. All she could do was stare in fearful awe as he dragged a chair into the room and sat across from her, his legs dangling off the edge since he was too short to reach the floor.

"…Y-you… summoned me?" she pronounced every syllable carefully, as if trying to make sense of them even after having said them out loud.

"I'm a mere Seer; I do not have that power. The Lord He Who Walks Behind The Rows called out to you. I am thankful that you answered. We've been expecting you. But first, what is your name?"

_"W__hat__ the__ hell __are __you __talking __about?_"

"The Lord summoned you, and you came. For that I am grateful."

"…"

The child nodded wisely, his face dead serious, which was odd to look at since this was how she imagined Gandalf would nod, although this boy looked more like a hobbit. His solemn demeanor was convincing, and she tried to remind herself that he couldn't be older than ten years old.

"Kid, where are your parents?"

He tilted his head slightly, and she realized he was indicating the window. She looked out but there was nothing but cornfields.

"In the corn."

"What, like working in the cornfields?"

"Not exactly. The adults fertilize the Lord's soil so the corn can grow tall and fruitful."

She raised one eyebrow. "Your parents are dead." She didn't want to understand what he really meant.

"All our parents are in the corn."

"Why." It didn't even sound like a question. The word just popped out.

"Because all adults are sinners. Only the child is pure enough to serve the Lord."

"Could you elaborate." Her voice was now a monotone.

"It started thirteen years ago when a Seer named David saw the Lord in a dream, and was told to gather all the children and rebel against the sinful adults. He did so, and the adults were used to fertilize the soil that year, and the crops were good for the first time in years. We have lived by David's teachings ever since, and when he reached the Age of Favor, I was chosen to be the next Seer."

Valentina pondered this warped version of the messiah. _And__ here __I__ thought__ Catholics __and __Evangelicals__ were __insane,_ she thought.

"Ah…" she tried to choose her words carefully. "Isn't it a sin to kill?"

"He Who Walks Behind The Rows is a god of favor, but He is a god of sacrifice as well."

_He__ didn't__ answer__ the__ question._

"Is that what the boy this morning was? A sacrifice?"

"No, Job was an unbeliever; a defiler of the corn. He was not sacrificed. He was punished."

_So much for freedom of religion._

"So _you_ ordered him to be killed."

"Yes. Blasphemy is not tolerated,." he said sternly.

"…so that _fiend_ was simply _following__ orders._"

"If you're referring to Malachai, then yes. I understand he frightened you, but he is not a fiend, I assure you." Valentina didn't notice the flash of worry in Isaac's eyes.

"Oh, is that his name," she said, ignoring the last part.

"Yes, he is my assistant."

"Hn," Valentina grunted. "So how does any of this involve me?"

Isaac's expression softened. Looking at him, she thought he looked almost vulnerable.

"I'll tell you, but first, may I know your name?"

She sighed. _At__ this __point__… __What__ the__ hell._ "Valentina."

He nodded. "Well, Valentina, one year ago the Lord tested our faith and we failed. Many died because of our weakening faith and the Lord lowered the Age of Favor from nineteen years to eighteen. Ever since then the crops have failed and many have died. And I have had dreams in which the spirit of He Who Walks Behind The Rows would come to us in the body of a human. And that human would redeem our weaknesses, and we would be fruitful once more. And now… you've finally arrived." Isaac stared at her with hopeful, almost pleading eyes. He looked like a child for the first time since she'd met him.

_He's__ been __dreaming__ of __me,__ too?__ This__ just__ gets__ weirder __by __the__ second__… _She tried to say something intelligent and rational, but all she could come up with was, "So… you want me to like, die on a cross for you?"

"No! You have a spiritual connection to He Who Walks Behind the Rows. Only _you_ can communicate with Him directly, and help us understand where we've gone wrong."

There was a long pause while Valentina attempted to digest this.

"Okay. Pushing aside the fact that this is the creepiest, most bizarre thing that has _ever_ happened, ever, and supposing I did what you're asking me to do, when would I get to go home?"

Isaac looked surprised. "You are home."

For a few seconds, she actually couldn't breathe. She had assumed they'd let her go if she did what they asked. That _would_ be the rational thing to think. Alas, she should have known better; because these weren't normal kidnappers, these were _homicidal__ pagan __children_. Or at least one of them was homicidal.

"Look, I didn't just _poof_ into your world, okay? I didn't get _sent__ down__ from__ heaven_. I have a family. They're probably frantic right about now. I can't just leave them."

He turned his head slightly and looked at her sideways. "You already have."

"I didn't choose to come here—"

"You walked _right__ into_ us though, didn't you, Valentina? You walked here while you slept. You didn't know it in your mind, but in your soul you _knew_ you were needed here."

"This is insane…" she muttered to herself, shaking her head incredulously.

"You _belong_ here in Gatlin. Think on it," he said solemnly, and turned to leave.

"Wait," Valentina said softly. "Where's my cat?"

He opened the door and called out, "Naomi," and motioned for her to come. "The cat."

Naomi smiled kindly and put down the purring animal who soon jumped onto his owner's lap.

The door closed and Valentina was left to discuss the affair with her trusted companion.

She sighed. She _had_ to get home… but how? How did one escape a herd pack of disturbed children? And what about her family? She imagined their grief. They must have been looking for her at that very moment. Soon she'd be filed as a missing person. But what if eventually she did get back? What would she say? 'I got abducted by a sect of pagan murderous miniature mythmongers' didn't sound quite plausible. They'd probably send her to a loony bin for the rest of her life.

Besides… would they even want her back? She was a burden. Maybe they'd be better off without her. Mamá and Papá wouldn't have to pay for therapy anymore, and the twins would have more freedom, and the money in her college fund could go to them… At least that's what her lack of serotonin said.

She had to admit it was nice to finally feel needed. It was as if Isaac were confirming the value of her existence, which she had questioned endless times. This might be her chance to make a difference for someone, even if that someone were these peculiar children. Maybe she could convince them to stop killing one another.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a loud growl coming from her stomach. It was cloudy, so she couldn't tell the time by looking at the sky, but it had to have been at least a good twelve hours since she last ate. With a sigh, she tasted the bread. It was made from corn, not wheat, no surprise there. It was a bit bland, but not bad. Valentina wasn't partial to strong flavors anyway. _I__ can__ live__ with __this,_ she thought. _I'm__ here, __aren't __I? __Might __as __well __make __the __most __of __it, __right?__ Right?_


End file.
